Work Text:
Charles should be happy that Max won the race. He is happy when the champagne and confetti go flying. He’s irritated with his second place but already looking forward to basking in Max’s pride later on. But then they gather for the group photo and. Well.
Charles has never deigned to notice the Red Bull mechanic collecting the constructor’s trophy before, so maybe he works somewhere in the back of the garage, and maybe that means he’s not used to the attention and perhaps unaware of basic etiquette. Like keeping his slimy hands off of Max. Maybe he’s just overexcited. Charles doesn’t particularly care. They shuffle close, smile for the flashing cameras, and that man gets his musty alpha scent all over Charles’ omega, groping Max around his divine waist and getting his other big hand on Max’s thigh. He molds himself close and doesn’t let go.
It only lasts a few seconds but it feels like a lifetime with the way Charles’ possessive instincts go wild as the mechanic’s fingers press close to the dip between Max’s thighs and his nose turns towards the delicate scent glands in his neck. His instincts tell him, without reason or question, that this mechanic wants Max. Wants to fuck him, claim him, put a baby in his belly. He wants to own Max.
His hand is placed so close to Max’s cunt. Charles smiles for the camera and imagines ripping him to shreds.
The Red Bull garage loves to get their hands on his Max, to grope him and toss him around, to slap his ass in the name of masculine camaraderie or however they like to call it. They push and pull at him like they own him, like they want to consume him. Like they desire him. They do desire him. Max doesn’t see the way their eyes follow him about the garage. He doesn’t know, would think nothing of that man’s hand so close to where he’s tight and tender. But Charles knows.
It’s the worst part of his alpha instincts, the possessive drive that always lingers just under his skin, the petty jealousy that arises whenever he wants. Always, the desire for more, for him alone. Charles is greedy and he doesn’t like to share. He can deal with the Red Bull mechanics fantasising about his omega as long as they keep their goddamn hands to themselves. Cochons.
Of course when the day is done Max will return to him, loyal as a dog, happily Charles’. He knows – in the cerebral part of his brain which isn’t always in control – that he has nothing to worry about, as long as he can wait. In a way, the waiting makes everything sweeter.
He’s perfect in public as always, playing the princely role beside Max in the press conference lounge while Max rambles about tyre deg and curbs. His muscles are tense, body tight, but Charles practices patience every day. Charles knows the shape of patience better than anyone else on the grid. He can be patient. Max smells divine next to him, his rich omega scent lighter than usual with his satisfaction at the race win. But he can smell the other man too, the bitterness of an alpha smelling another alpha. It’s like someone has smeared coal over his boy.
He drinks a whole bottle of water just to distract himself, tapping his rings against the plastic. It doesn’t stop the thrumming heat in his veins, the possessive drive pooling in his abdomen, his instincts telling him exactly how he can fix this problem.
After the press conference Max sends him a detached, close-lipped smile as he stands. It makes the other alpha’s scent stronger and in his mind’s eye he remembers the way those fucking fingers had splayed over the meat of Max’s thigh, the way they’d crept around the inside of his leg and marked him. Deliberately. Even though even betas can smell Charles all over Max.
He sees red and abruptly decides he doesn’t want to wait until after media is done.
He follows Max all the way back to his driver’s room, ignoring the indignant, confused call of his press officer as they pass the Ferrari hospitality. Max must know he’s following but he can’t do anything when they’re in public, and he probably wouldn’t want to anyway. Has no idea what’s about to happen. Charles feels like his veins are overheated, like he’s gone into rut with no notice. He’s already half-hard.
Max lets Charles follow him into his driver’s room without question. His Max. So sweet and trusting.
Charles has him up against the wall the moment the door shuts behind him.
Max gasps, back arching out of instinct, and Charles gets his mouth on him, kissing him hard, pressing into him in the way the alpha in him likes, bruising and uncompromising. Max kisses back, making a little mph sound when Charles shoves him back against the wall, opening his mouth to Charles obediently until Charles is forced to pull back for breath. He’s slumped down a little so Charles is taller than him.
“Tell me you are mine,” Charles demands. He sounds petulant and whiny to his own ears but his instincts are going crazy, a growl rumbling through his chest, his veins buzzing with possessive greed. The whole damn paddock wants his omega. They can’t have him.
“What?” Max says. His body is pliant against Charles, unthreatened despite the grip Charles has on his waist pulling him close. “Charles, baby – ”
“Tell me,” Charles repeats. His greedy hands run over Max’s body, pawing at the zip of his race suit, squeezing his waist with rough fingers, shoving a knee between his legs so he can feel the heat of his cunt. He’s smearing his own scent all over him, dips to suck at the glands on his neck. He is an animal controlled by his instincts.
“Hah – ” Max says, head tipping back. He smells so good. He smells like he always does after a good race – sweaty and exhausted and sated. Like an omega that’s just been fucked. Charles sticks his face deeper into his neck and breathes in, settles his teeth against the gland just to feel a little more secure. Max gasps out, “Yours – Charles, Charlie – yours – ”
He doesn’t have a clue what’s going on but he doesn’t need to know. He never seems to mind when Charles is in the mood to take him on a ride.
“Mine,” Charles confirms, and finally gets the stupid racesuit open so he can stick his hand inside and get it on Max’s cunt.
Max moans loudly and Charles bites down just a little harder in warning. He’s sure someone saw him come in here. “What is happening,” Max says, sounding breathless and turned on and just a little bit amused.
He shuts up fast when Charles gets two fingers on his clit. His face goes pink, one of his gorgeous sinful lips caught between his teeth. He spreads his legs wider. “Fuck me,” he curses quietly.
“That is the plan,” Charles mutters and Max laughs, even now so gentle and open to him.
His vulva and the inside of his thighs are already damp after three hours in a race suit and Max always gets slick fast like the perfect omega he is, so Charles shoves two long fingers inside him, rings and all, loving the hot clench of his hole and the dirty wet sound as it gives in to his rough fingers. He fucks up into Max hard and fast and the mirth disappears from Max’s face, replaced by big doll eyes staring up at Charles, mouth dropping open as he starts to pant. He’s always so easy for his alpha.
Charles’ thumb is unrelenting on his clit and he drags an orgasm out of him within a minute, fingers shoving at his insides until the wetness turns to squelching and Max whimpers and clamps his thighs around Charles’ wrist, throwing his head back to present his neck as he comes. He won’t be satisfied; too quick, too rough. But he loves when Charles gets a little mean with him so he’s already half-way zoned out, looking dazed by Charles’ brutish hands. And Charles got what he wanted: his cunt dripping and open and needy. Soaked already. His poor hole flexes through the aftershocks around Charles’ fingers like it’s begging for more.
There’s no point asking questions when Charles is in a mood, of course. Better to take his knot and soothe him afterwards. Charles knows Max will hate being late to the rest of their media duties, but his good boy doesn’t even bother to bring it up.
Charles takes Max’s jaw between his fingers and tips his head to the side, kissing down his pale neck and resisting the urge to mark up his beautifully reactive skin. He’ll get an earful if anything is visible when they go out to the media pen. He nips at Max’s gland and Max’s hips jerk in response. He’s too empty. Max runs a shaky hand over his hair like he’s petting one of his cats.
Charles rips his own suit open with one impatient hand while he shoves Max’s suit down around his hips with the other. He pulls his cock out, letting it bounce up against his abdomen. The head is an angry purpling red, the slit beading pearly precome which is already smeared down his impressive length. He’s been leaking all through the press conference and his boxers – tucked up under his balls – feel gross and sticky. He feels backed up right to his bladder, feeling the pressure of that bottle of water, wound so tight he might come the moment he gets inside Max.
He pulls one of Max’s thighs around his waist, then fits the fat head of his cock into Max’s tight, hot hole and shoves deep. He sinks several inches into Max in one go. Max’s body is forced to accommodate Charles’ bullying cock and he keens, loudly, and slaps a hand over his own mouth to stay quiet. Charles gets a hand on his ass and pulls him closer, sinking in deeper.
“My good boy,” Charles croons, stroking his neck. Mine, mine, mine, his brain crows in triumph.
He doesn’t have to wait for Max’s body to adjust, setting a pace that has Max moaning helplessly against his own palm to try and contain his needy sounds. Max is so tight around him, the entrance of his swollen little pussy stretching for Charles’s cock, thick even without the knot. Charles is angled up in the way he knows Max likes and it has Max twitching and breathless, dripping all over the both of them, so wet there are droplets all over the floor. It’s so hot Charles has to pause and catch his breath for a moment so he doesn’t come right then and there. Then he goes harder.
Max sinks his teeth into the meat of Charles’ shoulder as Charles rails into him, holding on for dear life. When Charles sneaks a glance at him he feels hot, vicious victory at the spaced out look on his face. He’s damn near cross eyed. He gets like this sometimes: a little dumb, a little desperate. All he needs is a cock inside him and the intelligent thoughts are knocked from his head, leaving only his base omega instincts to please his alpha. All Charles’ to own. Just how Charles needs him right now.
“You’re so easy for me,” Charles groans against Max’s temple, each word punctuated by a heavy thrust. Max is making punched out moans, almost lost beneath the slap of skin on skin. He’s humping back onto Charles’ cock, doing his best to keep up with Charles’ pounding. “Such a slut for me. Don’t need to know anything s’long as I’ve got my dick in your messy little cunt. Hmm?”
Max nods against him, smearing sweat over his neck. Charles pinches the soft skin of his waist and orders, “Words.”
“‘M a slut,” Max whispers, obedient in the way he only becomes when his head is truly gone. It’s the ego shot of Charles’ life that his dick can do this to him. “I’m – Charles, please – ”
“But only for me,” Charles demands. His thrusts are more brutal now, more uncontrolled. He’s only hitting Max’s g-spot on every other push in, but he’s told sometimes that’s even better. He yanks Max onto his cock on every thrust in. He can feel the strain in his hips and his shoulders, working up a sweat. Not an after-race cooldown his PT would approve of. Max is so loose around him now, all cored out. “You only get this soaked for me. Only get this dumb for me. Tell me.”
Max speaks thready and breathless, barely able to produce words. He succeeds because his alpha wants him to. “O-only for you,” he manages.
“You take my cock so well,” Charles praises him. “Nobody else fucks you this good.”
If Max were more present Charles would be getting the stink eye and a blunt reminder that nobody else fucks Max at all. Instead he just babbles, “Nobody – never – your whore, yours – ”
“Do you want to come, baby?”
“Please,” Max begs. Charles can see his pleasure has hit the threshold of pain, of too much, of oversensitivity. His cock pulses at the sight of him wet-eyed and desperate.
“I will fill you all the way up,” Charles promises and Max sobs a little against him.
In the end even Max is just an omega desperate to be full with his alpha.
Just this side of pathetic, and maybe Charles is a horrible, greedy alpha who wants nothing more than to take and to own but it makes him rumble with satisfaction knowing this is for him alone, that Max would never, ever show this vulnerability to anybody else. Not his garage, not that bastardo mechanic. It’s his. Max is his alone.
Charles gets his hand back on his clit. The poor thing is all puffy and throbbing, hot and slippery to touch. Max tries to dodge away with an unhappy moan but Charles digs his fingers into his ass and holds him still, jerking him off as he fucks him.
“God,” Max chokes. “Charles – please, Charles – please please please – ”
“Come, baby,” Charles allows and Max does, toppling over the edge with a sound wrenched from deep in his chest, his cunt spasming wildly around Charles’ cock as slick spatters out around the stretched-thin edges of his hole, his whole body shaking and going boneless in Charles’ grasp.
His orgasm pulls Charles along with him, and Charles comes deep inside him, groaning as some of that awful tension at the base of his abdomen is released. He marks Max as his and in the panting, sweaty, overheated aftermath everything is perfect for a long moment, finally convinced that his claim has been made. Everything is very quiet for a minute as Charles slowly softens inside him, punctuated only by their heavy breaths.
Then Charles realises that he still feels that same pressure behind his abdomen calling for release. He’s not done yet. It’s a quick understanding: that cursed bottle of water. He needs to fucking pee. Nobody ever talks about how it’s the same feeling as needing to fuck. It’s messing with his alpha hindbrain, making him feel unsatisfied like he hasn’t done enough to make sure everybody knows Max is his. There are wires getting crossed in his brain. He feels hostile and irrational, like someone is trying to take his omega from him even though they’re alone.
Charles rests his forehead against Max’s temple, feeling the damp gusts of Max’s breath against his chin. He shifts to relieve the pressure and already knows what he’s going to do. It’s gross. It makes Charles feel hot all over just to think about. He’s not often rash, but sometimes he just can’t help himself. It’s not even the first time they’ve done this so he knows Max goes wild for it, although never without prepping and never – well, never inside.
Max is pliant, doll-like and malleable in his arms. He looks so sweet. So wrecked and fucked out.
Charles won’t have anyone questioning who he belongs to.
He shifts and Max’s brow creases between his closed eyes, his cunt clenching instinctively around Charles to stop him from escaping. Charles holds him steady and lets himself release.
His piss fills Max’s cunt, at first in a couple of jerky blurts and bursts, but then it becomes a steady stream filling him up and he knows Max feels it when he gasps and his head jerks back. His eyes pop open, wide and blue and filled with tears as he stares up at Charles, his fat lips open in a perfect O. He whispers, “Charlie – ”
“So good for me,” Charles interrupts. He’s holding on to Max so tightly that he must be bruising him but Max likes that anyway. “Everyone will be now knowing – will smell me in you – my piss in you – will know you’re mine – ”
Max’s thigh clenches and unclenches around Charles’ hip, fingers tangling in the zipper of Charles’ race suit, like he doesn’t know whether he wants to stay or move away. But he’s a good omega, Charles’ perfect omega, drowned in his own instincts. Of course he lets Charles piss in him; Charles knew he would all along.
It makes Max gasping and weak to be claimed so – so indelicately, so coarsely. So completely. It has his abdomen tensing and fluttering, all sensible thought gone. “Alpha, ” he whines.
“You sound like you’re in heat,” Charles taunts, pushing his piss deeper.
“Feel so full it hurts,” Max stammers. His hands scrabble up Charles’ chest, trembling and needy. “Filling me up so good – can feel it stretching me – it’s so hot – fuck, fuck – ”
“Everyone will smell you,” Charles says, and thrusts up into him once. Max makes a wounded, broken off sound. His stream starts to taper off. “Will be knowing I let you do this to you, know that you loved it – ”
“Oh my god,” Max moans and then his breath catches and he doubles over, pressing his sweaty forehead into Charles’ collarbone. He’s coming again at the too-full stretch of Charles’ piss inside him. At knowing everyone will know what he let Charles do to him. At the ache of being overfilled. His cunt mouths at Charles’ cock, too worn out to do more.
Charles presses his nose into Max’s filthy sweaty hair, kisses him once there. “Little piss slut,” he murmurs.
Max hauls his head back up to stare at Charles with those glazed, dumb blue eyes. His hand goes to his stomach. He giggles a little, pissdrunk, and says, “You stretched me out.”
Charles growls and shoves his hand inside the fireproofs to feel for himself the way Max’s stomach curves out just slightly, taut and hot against his palm. He’s filled him all the way up to bursting. He groans, low and deep in his chest.
Charles starts fucking into Max despite his softening dick, short sharp thrusts that make Max twitch and his spine bend the way it does when he’s feeling sore in just the right way. Piss blurts out of his cunt on each thrust and spatters against the ground, over their thighs, wetting their clothes. Charles catches a hint of the acrid smell, mild because he’s been drinking nothing but water the whole day, but there nonetheless. He can’t believe he has an omega that will let himself be marked in this way. Owned.
Max looks completely fucked out. His body is loose and held up only by Charles’ arms, his cheeks red, eyes glassy, hair a mess. Charles can’t help but kiss his shiny pink lips, exploring his mouth with his tongue for a long minute. Then he murmurs against his mouth, “I’m gonna pull out and I want you to push for me, okay, love?”
“‘Kay,” Max mumbles, hand back on his bloated stomach.
Charles pulls back slowly, enjoying Max’s overworked cunt clenching around him and the bubbling, frothing mix of hot piss and slick and his own come that leaks out around him. His thick head catches on Max’s little entrance for just a moment and Max’s face creases in discomfort before it pops out and Max gasps, pushing out hard. The piss jets out of him in a wide arc that splashes against their thighs and runs down over their calves, splattering up across Charles’ arms and chin, making a filthy puddle on the ground. Max moans at the release, eyes closing and face crumbling like the sheer relief is causing him pain, like he’s about to cry. His fingernails are digging crescent moons into Charles’ biceps.
It’s over too soon. Max sobs as the final dribbles escape him. There are thick webs of drooling slick still clinging to his pussy, making a mess of his cunt and his thighs. Charles drags his flat hand between his legs and licks the slick and the remainder of himself off his palm, then kisses Max and feeds him whatever’s left with his spit. Max takes it easy with a contented little noise, but then he’s laughing and pulling back to say, “You are fucking gross.”
“Mmm,” Charles agrees. “And you always take it well like a good slut. No?”
Max rolls his eyes even as he flushes. “Yes,” he says amicably. “But you are the one having to explain this mess to my poor team.”
Charles doesn’t give a fuck if it means they know that Max is his and they’re not to touch him. There’s a pleasant warmth in his chest, that alpha needs to claim and mark and own finally sated. They can know. It’s good for them to know Max belongs to him alone. He pulls Max’s wet underwear up for him and admires the way the wetness clings to his slit. “Have a shower but wear the underwear to the media pen,” he instructs. Max will go out there absolutely reeking of him or he won’t go out at all.
The bright spots on Max’s cheeks darken. “Marking me like a fucking dog,” he mutters as he kicks away his defiled race suit. It’s not a complaint. He’ll be embarrassed beyond belief but by the time he gets back to his motorhome he’ll be begging to go three more rounds. Charles knows him well. But because he always needs to get the final word, he adds, “But if I start chafing I’m not fucking you for a month.”
Charles is planning to find that stupid fucking mechanic and tell him that they need clean up in Max’s room. Then he’ll charm Max’s press officer into forgiving him for making Max late to media. His own PO will be less than impressed. He pecks Max one final time. “Deal,” he says.